Ascendancy
by Oceanbourne
Summary: When the troubadours spin their tales of heroes past and present, there is always another legend at their side. [The characters listed are from the most recent chapter.]
1. Chapter 1

**1 - Fiora, Jarvan IV**

The eyes that appeared out of the Great Barrier were never that grey.

Before his proud visage had been marred with the dishonor of defeat, before his stalwart honor had been hassled by the horrors of humiliation, before his unchecked confidence had been thwarted by the unpredictability of warfare, he dreamed of fairytale promises of conquest and glory, of golden aegises and silver sabers, of knights and lords mounting their stallions and riding out to battle to triumph over their enemies in an all-encompassing blaze of victory.

The scribe would choose to begin his narrative with the first campaign of the modern era, an age denoted by the time the youngest Lightshield turned eighteen and subsequently deemed fit to lead a battalion of soldiers against the kingdom's sworn enemy, the city-state of Noxus. However, the ink of the quill ran deeper than that, rewinding the sands of time one year before.

He never believed that clothes made the man. On the contrary, the more effort put into preparing his appearance before a court appointment, the more nervous he became. Sighing to himself, he wished, not for the first time, that he could receive members of the nobility in his casual attire and leave the frills, jewels, and robes out of the way. He understood the etiquette which everyone expected of him, however, and no matter how new the upcoming knight may have been to the royal guard, if they had proven adequate to serve as his personal knight-at-arms, then it was his burden to treat him with the respect he deserved and the respect which a Lightshield would be prepared to offer.

Chiding himself for his uneasiness as he began his descent down the spiral staircase of the palace, he stopped for a minute to adjust the strings of his shirt. _Why do you have to be nervous when you're only meeting the new knight? They wouldn't be different from any of the others you've come across before._ Careful not to accidentally undo the knot which was holding the collar together, he mused that the strict standards at which the nobility wore dress shirts probably led to his jitters, further wondering how people could move so freely under the constraints of such inhibiting clothing.

In order to take his mind off the upcoming encounter, he posed a question to the man walking alongside him. "Can you tell me anything more about this new knight, Count Riddell?"

The count, a fairly stout man in his late forties with a thick mustache and a jovial demeanor, mulled over his knowledge before coming up with an answer. "I'm afraid the records do not hold anything substantial about them, my prince. The baron of Defienne has only reported of the new recruit's incredible skill with the blade, with top of the class marks in every commonly used type of sword. Other than this unusual proficiency, their resumé looks fairly unremarkable. One has to wonder about what classified information the Lightshield inner circle possesses which would drive to them to such a choice, but I suppose that secret lies with the Council of Arbiters."

Count Riddell continued drabbling on about a couple of aristocratic matters which he honestly found trivial and downright boring, but his patience was soon rewarded when they reached the end of the staircase and made their way down the velvet carpet, parting ways with a cordial handshake and a typical Demacian farewell before he continued his solitary journey into the room where his knight-at-arms was waiting to finally meet him. A couple of last minute ponderings entered his mind, most of them quite silly given the swiftly encroaching time of arrival. _What if I'm taller than him? What if I mispronounce their name? What if they refuse to work with me?_ He was careful to specify 'with' rather than 'for' - he did not consider himself an employer who contracted a bodyguard for the sole purpose of requiring protection. Such a cowardly act would be typical of a weak noble who could not fend for themselves. The power of a knight-at-arms allowed for a prince to begin their military career alongside an equal, or someone of higher skill than them, able to mentor and guide them through the demanding toll the way of the soldier imposed. His knight would act as the elder brother he never had, he hoped.

The surveyor of the grounds stood at the doorway expectantly, straightening up when the prince walked near. Before he would come face-to-face with his knight, there was some archaic ritual to perform. In the days of the first king, it would have included an offering of blood, typically done by wounding himself with a broken sword, but the constraints of modernity immensely watered down the process, and only an incantation consisting of reciting a few lines remained.

He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself. The surveyor signalled him to step forward, coming within a couple of paces of the door. "Speak your intent, Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth."

"Heed my words. My will creates your crusade, and your sword creates my destiny. If you hear the empire's call and obey its justice and reason, then accept my contract. I hereby swear that I shall be all the good in the world, that I shall defeat all evil in the world. And let no wicked mind cloud thine eyes with the fog of malice and chaos, as I keep thine spirit away from the cage of madness. By the seventh heaven clad in the scarlet vows of power, come forth from your bindings, Knight of Knights."

A weight seemed to lift from his shoulders as he finished the ritual, turning the knob of the door and entering the room. For all his preparation and the solemn monologue he had delivered to calm his sense, he could not help but jump slightly in surprise.

Rising from a kneeling position, which he had presumed they were waiting in the whole time, stood a distinctively feminine face adorned by medium-length black hair, a single streak of red showing a rebellious side to the otherwise stately countenance. She was clad in the typical armor of Demacian knights, mostly silver with the colors of blue and gold displayed on the forearms. A matching silver scabbard hung at her waist as his mind wandered back to what Count Riddell had mentioned. _Incredible skill with the blade. Is this really my knight? I have never once heard of a woman serving as a knight in Demacia's entire history, let alone for the royal family. Maybe this is a mistake-_

"I ask of you," his knight spoke softly, "are you my master?"

* * *

 **A/N:** are you sick of my non-Trinity stories yet? I was really bored and I googled that 100 theme thing on deviantart because I needed an excuse to make yet another document with all of my short ideas on there, but there's a difference with this one. With each theme I write I may or may not create an entirely new pair of characters to depict, or I may continue on from old story lines. So this will be very disjointed, but at the start of each chapter I'll tell you what's going on.

I also ripped off super super super hard from Fate/Zero at the end but I had the soundtrack in my head when I wrote this pls no hate


	2. Chapter 2

**02 - Janna, Jayce**

"The flames had devoured the entire building and they still hungered for more," he relates, his voice swelling and dipping like the waves on the ocean as the words flowing from his mouth sweep across the table on the balcony of the Falcon's Perch, a restaurant both he and his date happen to frequent. "Where the firefighters thought was no opening, I made one for myself so they could get to the little girls trapped on the top floor. It wasn't easy pulling away all the broken debris where the walls had crashed while avoiding the fire, but I managed to power through." He stops his narrative for a while and takes in the sight which watches him back, his company leaning back in her chair and raising an eyebrow in response.

"You're saying you single-handedly walked into a burning apartment complex and cleared out the wreckage which a team of firefighters couldn't do?" He understands why one would question his deeds, but he also makes sure to sate their skepticism.

"I never said I didn't pay a steep price, and I have the scars to prove it," he answers, tapping the side of his chest with a smirk, which she scoffs at and turns her face away. "The hammer didn't come out of that ordeal without its own share of injuries, either, and I've yet to repair it to working condition."

She pulls in her chair and sits straighter, unrolling the dining ware from their wrapped cloth as their appetizers arrive. "Alright, alright, Mr. Hero, you've convinced me." Her voice draws around his ears tighter than a string, and he knows the tales of gallantry and courage, which she has heard a thousand times before, do not impress her like they would any other woman. Her unflappability does not discourage him either, for he understands what she really values.

The eyes now peering into his very character today shine like a cloudless sky, a light shade of blue which likes to set a cheerful mood for the stage. He knows the feel - looking into those eyes reminds him of the sky on the day when he left the lab after toiling all night on the final touches to his grand opus, the Mercury Hammer. On that day he set his sights on the horizon, which promised him success and the strength to plunge into the dark depths of Zaun to reclaim his city's rightful property.

On other days they would hold stormy grey orbs which mirrored the appearance of the clouds which foretold an approaching storm, the messengers of impending danger. Seldom did they flash when he would spend time together with him, mostly making themselves known when she spoke about her past. The only other time he bore witness to the chrome filling her irises happened when they came across one of the street vagrants whom they had found getting a few winks under the shade of a fir tree on a bed of newspapers.

But when the occasion turns out just right, her eyes twinkle a pure hazel color, brighter than the usual hue, but not quite goldenrod, his favorite color. "Only the innocent children were born with golden eyes," she corrected him the first time he identified them, and even though he remembers the proper shade of yellow for future times, he will always see her as his golden-eyed girl.

The arrival of a waiter pulls him back to reality as the young man, who can't be more than a few years younger than himself, announces that the main course has arrived. "We've come quite the distance," he comments, meeting the alluring smile of the vivacious blonde sitting across from him with a grin of his own. She takes a sample of the salmon on her plate, chewing thoughtfully before she responds.

"I suppose we have. We are sitting about fifty feet above the streets," she flirts around the subject which they both know to bring up eventually, but which neither want to simply blurt out. He knows how she plays her game, an entire wealth of information lying between her gesticulations and her expressions, more to scrutinize than the myriad of data tables the most recent scientific journal he had picked up contained.

"This height is nothing." He will gladly accept her challenge and continue this meaningless subject. "I've jumped from rooftops more than three times taller chasing down thieves. Have I told you about the time I had to apprehend a robber trying to run off with a sculpture from the Museum of Technological Art?"

"Now you're beginning to sound like Vi," she teases, but the way she keeps her eye contact and how he notices her breathe ever so slightly harder makes him aware of the anticipation she tries to hide under the table. He can lead her on a wild goose chase if she wants to do it her way; he always judged himself a good storyteller.

Tangent after tangent bring them through dessert (or the lack of, both politely decline) and after leaving a generous tip for their service, including a wad of dollar bills which makes the boy who had served them blush with embarrassment, they walk over to the railing. The last strands of daylight provide a fitting backdrop to their view of the city, reds and oranges adorning the streets and the small clumps of trees signifying parks here and there.

They stand with their elbows upon the ledge, slightly leaning forward as they continue to take in the sights, and he decides the time has to come to end the frivolous matter they had skirted around for the entire day. "Was the sun like this around the same time last year?"

"It might have been. My mind is a little fuzzy trying to remember that day," she innocently replies. He wants to laugh at her statement, but he needs to keep his poker face if he wants to carry out his plan to perfection. If she, who consistently remembers absurd trivia when they watch game shows on the television on their weekday evenings, happened to suffer a memory lapse, then he would become the next man to win the lottery. After reconsidering the matter, he grants the theory some plausibility. His luck has already landed him with her, after all.

"That's odd." He goes in for the closer. "I find it hard to forget the first time our lips met."

She turns to him with an exaggerate show of surprise, not an over-the-top gesture made for comedic effect, but subtle enough for him to understand she had done it on purpose. "Perhaps you're not just memorable enough in that department."

"How about I give you a reminder, then," he finishes, and they move towards each other to reevaluate.

Before she has the chance to share her judgment, he speaks again. "Happy anniversary, Janna."

The golden - not hazel, he will never admit - eyes come out of hiding. "This is the longest you've ever kept an important matter from me, you know."

"That just means I never keep secrets from you," he corrects. She draws a finger to her lips, but can't hide her smile.

"This would be the perfect time to bring out your gift, but I hope you'll excuse me when I say it's not exactly the most portable of presents." He supposes he could have pulled the plaque off the door, but it would defeat the purpose of bringing her to the studio to see her brand new workspace at Piltover Central News.

"That's not a problem," she assures him. "My gift isn't something you could wrap up either, but I can still give it to you now." Up to now, he had always held the lead in information she did not know, but now it has become his turn to show confusion. He wonders what sort of magic she has conjured up, and only when she instructs him to climb atop the ledge does he understand, a sly grin developing on his face. Every kid must have had the thought cross his mind at one point during his childhood, but how many of them could say they would actually fly? A look around the rest of the establishment and he sighs in relief - he would hate having to explain how what he planned to do wasn't what it seemed, even though everyone in the city understood the powers Janna possesses.

"The feeling will only last twenty minutes," she cautions him with a more serious tone, and he nods in understanding. "Stay close to me at all times, but it doesn't matter where we end up - I can support your weight."

"Glad to see I haven't grown fat," he jokes, to which she rolls her eyes before smiling again. She places a hand on his forehead, and he can feel his body growing lighter and the air becoming more fluid, as if he stands within a body of water. When the process completes, she nods to him, and he faces the horizon, which once again foretells nothing but future happiness.

He leaps into the afternoon sky, and it seems like even gravity has cleared out to make room for Janna and him. His first movements are awkward and ungraceful, as he tries to commit his knowledge of swimming to actual flight, and she laughs while directing his limbs towards the correct positions and movements. He is quick to learn, a trait which allowed him to come to success in his field in the first place, and although he cannot call himself equal to the hawks and eagles, he still flies with exuberance, soaring through the air with the woman of his dreams at his side.

"Why did they name you the Storm's Fury?" he wonders, a strange thought to hold when one finds themselves gliding through the sky.

"Hmm… I suppose they wanted that image of a _femme fatale_ , no? Elegant, yet dangerous," she guesses.

"Wouldn't the Storm's Felicity be a more suitable moniker?" he suggests.

The jaggedness of the new title brings out her hearty chuckle. "I hope you're aware that the root of that word means 'lucky,' rather than 'happy' which everyone seems to think."

"So much the better," Jayce agrees, "because the winds couldn't have a better fortune than to find an avatar like you."

* * *

 **A/N:** romance is hard, man

Sorry if anyone expected a continuation of the Fiora/Jarvan story I'm making a collection of one-shots here :v I'll probably get to them eventually but here I tried my hand at the 'love' theme from the 100 themes challenge and my endings could use a lot of work


	3. Chapter 3

**3 - Diana, Malphite**

She could find the circles hidden within every settlement, no matter how closely they overlapped or how deeply they had entrenched themselves in the society.

Naming the organization a league implied a partnership of equals from varying backgrounds with respect given to the members' pasts. However, upon entry, she quickly grasped how the Institute of War did not differ much at all from the typical civilization. All of the beings with whom she fought, whether they be human, yordle, alien, or uniquely intelligent life form, differentiated themselves into groups all according to their allegiances, beliefs, origins, or any other reason which could bind them together.

The only people who could not find a way to relate to others using one criterion or another were the ones who could not even find themselves. She had believed the Institute the final avenue towards recreating her identity, the ultimate answer she needed to justify the creed by which she swore, but instead upon stepping onto its grounds she found her hands as empty as a night sky without stars, holding nothing but the unsubstantial feeling of isolation.

Even the self-proclaimed exile clung to an idealistic vision of her country which she one day hoped to achieve, despite its current political environment spiraling off in the completely opposite direction. Even the outcast who could not forgive himself wandered with a clear goal in mind and the constant reminder of the family whom he had both killed and swore to avenge. But she cannot call any place on Runeterra her country, nor any person on the planet her family. She might have had such things in her past, if she regressed to the flawed perspective she used to hold. All of the connections she experienced with the world had shattered along with the chains which tried to restrain her belief.

They were outcasts because people feared what they had already done. She was an outcast because people feared what she had yet to do.

Reading served as the only solace she could look towards, the very interest which prompted her towards her initial questioning, but she did not blame the books for what they pointed her towards. Within each tome she saw only truth, veritable information which vastly trumped the childish fairytales of tradition the Solari had tried to forced down her throat. She would always end up as the last to leave the Institute library, although her dedication would never offend the ancient demigod who served as caretaker of the books. Categorizing the existence of the canine spirit proved a difficult task, but nevertheless he became one of the sole beings whom she tolerated.

She began to think her isolation from humanity had begun to transform her into a natural spirit, as she recognized another metaphysical being drawing near her lonely perch atop the top of the colonnade of the Institute's main building. Whether or not it desired to seek her out in particular, she could not tell, but she waited in anticipation as it slowly paced towards her seat.

"Why are you here?"

For a member of a supposed macrocosmic monolith, it behaves surprisingly bluntly. "I'm reading," she replies with equal bluntness and tries to get back to her literature.

"I know that," it continues, and pauses there. She knows it has more to say, so she waits.

"It is cold."

"I'm warm-blooded," she claims, which is not a complete lie. Her two decades weathering the extreme conditions on Mount Targon have shaped her into a hardy person, more than capable of handling the winds blowing on winter nights in such a temperate region like the center of Valoran.

"You are alone."

"I need no company," she insists, not as powerfully as her previous responses. When she bothers to look up at the rocky being, she catches the stony face curl into a shape remotely resembling a frown. The Shard of the Monolith came from a world residing in perfect order, and it was well attuned to recognizing when something fell out of equilibrium. Realizing that her inner discord was causing its stubborn behavior, she sighs and waits for his response.

"That is untrue."

She tries to decide what annoys her more - the fact that it can see through her tough facade or how it has showed how insightful it was with sentences not exceeding five words. "I am used to being alone."

"You need another."

She sets the book down, leaning against one of the stone pillars wearily. Not only had she abandoned the heritage of her previous life, but as the sole embodiment of the moon's chosen, there no longer existed another person like her, and to her knowledge, no more would ever walk upon the earth.

"But none will come."

A shake of its head, and it begins to corrects her. "Not a person."

She demands to know its meaning, imploring it with desperate eyes. It directs a jagged finger towards the sky, where she beholds her deity in all its glory, a complete sphere set amongst the aether shining its light upon the one believer it still possesses.

"It is enough."

She begins to understand the monolith's point. Belief does not necessitate persuasion, as that would simply lead to the trap of religion from which she had escaped in the first place. If she truly held a sincere fervor for her worship, she should act content with the fact that she had found the freedom to express her beliefs under the protection of the Institute. Whether or not others would come to share her belief was unimportant, and she should let her creed perpetuate her purpose, not the other way around.

"...I don't need followers?"

Receiving philosophical satisfaction from an animated boulder makes her very self-conscious, but her temporary state of weakness does not particularly care about the circumstances. All she awaits now is the next teaching it utters, despite the brief form in which the package comes out.

"Truth is sufficient."

It all makes sense to her now. The ones who have found the answers do not need to share their discovery with the world, staying content with the fact that they have achieved their goal. She realizes she has to thank it for the profound message, but she is also stumped at how it could understand the dynamic between the moon and herself. "How could you understand?'

Malphite looks at her with two solemn shards of eyes.

"Just another rock."

* * *

 **A/N:** I was quite pleased with the way Malphite turned out so deep with how few words he actually said. When I imagine his lines in-game I just couldn't write him with long sentences like I typically write my characters, so this time I tried to make dialogue as concise as was possible.

The motif for this chapter was 'light' if anyone is curious so I decided to take a character associated with (moon)light and pair her up with someone you usually don't see in fanfics, and I thought it went pretty well!


	4. Chapter 4

**4 - Nocturne, Syndra**

The dreams all began the same way.

Ever the observant child, she diligently kept track of the growth of her magic as each day went by. Before the elders sent her to learn under the tutelage of the old mage, the amount of power she controlled grew exponentially, a fact which delighted her. However, once she had stepped within the boundaries of the temple, the power curve began to flatten out. At first she attributed it to incomplete data, as she hadn't gotten a sizable amount of day-to-day changes at the time to accurately judge the nature of the magic. But when she noticed the curve begin to ascend rapidly on the few days when the mage allowed her to spend some time with her family, she knew something was going amiss, and she would walk up to him to demand an answer.

"My child, you already possess more power than the elementalists of the Placidium. There is no need to teach you what will come to you naturally. But in order to truly realize your potential, you must understand restraint. Within the temple, I have set limits to your power, so its growth will not overwhelm you. Here, you must learn how to use your gifts moderately. The case is the same for all young mages - if you exert too much force, the power will not hesitate to turn on you and consume you."

A motion of her hand, and her mentor's body flew into the air before colliding with the temple wall, going limp upon impact. However, her dream self would always walk to the body to gaze upon his face, something she never did in reality. She saw no need to associate with the weak, to give any regard for those who tried to put a leash onto something as wonderful as the magic flowing through her. Confinement was the learned man's way of dealing with the things he feared. Although he appeared different from the coward who merely runs away, neither of them could embrace the strength which lay in front of them like she would.

When she looked upon his face, she would find her mentor still alive, gazing at her with wide open eyes and a wildly shaking head and shoulders. "Wh-what have you done, Syndra?" he would plead as no matter how many times she smashed his face into the ground, he continued to stare at her with that eerie look on his face and repeated the same word. _Why?_ And though she wanted to show no concern towards the weak, she couldn't ignore the effect he managed to bring upon her.

It haunted her.

Tonight's dream sequence progressed much the same way, the body thrown against the wall, the pale face keeping its accusing gaze riveted at her. Instead of calling out to her, however, the mage's body began to dissolve into a black mist, which began to fill the temple. She frowned, wondering what the new proceedings could mean, and watched as the mist began to take form. A blue torso materialized, followed by two wispy arms and hands. The face which appeared to her could frighten even the bravest of heroes, and even she felt the temptation to take a step back, but she managed to hold her ground. Hollow eye sockets, spheres of pure white, scrutinized her, and the visage on which they rested rippled in the black cloud which surrounded them. Two tendrils shot out from its hands and attempted to assault her, but she quickly forced them back with a command of her own.

The figure's expression of pure malice softened for a split second as it halted its advance. "You do not fear me."

"Why should anything in this world cause me concern? There is no being greater than I."

"In which world, mage? Yours… or mine?"

It disappeared into a swirling vortex, and as she tried to follow where it went the portal began to suck her in with such force that the entire dream collapsed and forced her to wake up, not because of surprise, but due to the complete destruction of her temporary mental state.

She did not attempt to go back to sleep.

* * *

When she joined the League of Legends, it made the most sense for her to seek out the most powerful beings she could find, to see if any of the superhuman champions or supernatural entities could match up to her raw strength. Many of them showed promise, until she did some digging into their histories and became disappointed. Glorified superhumans wielding an ancient power, relegating themselves to protecting the world from the aftermath of an arcane ritual gone wrong? She scoffed at their folly, noting that if a magus truly deserved to receive that power, it would not consume their body and make them a mere slave, a new vessel to contain it. When her power first called to her, it behaved no differently than the blood flowing through her veins, becoming a natural part of her body's processes.

She had not heard of the Void until her first days within the Institute, but she believed it could be a land of unlimited potential, if the summoners spoke of the area so carefully she would've thought they were balancing a sculpture of glass with their words. One man looked into the Void and became a disfigured creature, barely surviving its horrors in order to become a living warning to what he claimed would be the end of Runeterra. Another had become enchanted with the fantastic creatures it spewed forth, for some reason believing their invasion would bring a golden age to the land. She pitied the fates of both, the first man too weak to resist the Void's mutative powers, the second too eager to embrace the nature of a dimension which would only bring destruction. The creatures of the Void which made it to the Institute, somehow being given admittance by the summoners into the League, did not exhibit power the way it was supposed to display itself. They were disgusting filth, horrendous to look upon, the complete opposite of her. She was beautiful, the pinnacle of human achievement, the summit of individual progress.

She was power itself.

Not until she stumbled upon the darkest corners of the Institute's corridors, into the forbidden wings of the building reserved for the most horrifying of horrors, did she come across a specimen to interest her. Easily knocking unconscious the summoner who monitored the access to the chamber of confinement where her objective lay chained to a nexus fragment, she recognized the creature as the one from her dreams, several years ago.

If it noticed her entry into the communications room directly adjacent to its prison, a mere glass window separating the two, it did not make any motion. Only until she addressed it did it stir from its resting position and glance at her with the same familiar white eyelids.

"You are the girl whose mind I could not destroy."

She hadn't heard such good humor in a long time. "You? Even thinking about overpowering the mind of someone as mighty as me?"

"The darkness eventually gets to everyone… but you… you have already embraced it, it seems."

It might have mentioned something of interest there. "What do you mean, I've embraced darkness?"

A ghostly hand attempted to point at her, its advance halted by the manacles. "Do you not see it? It circles all around you, acting as your secondary life force. You parade around, gloating about your untapped power, but only I am aware of what deeds you can perform if you become completely attuned with the darkness. I could unlock the door to such omnipotence."

The prospect definitely appealed to her. "Even more authority, huh? How could you possibly know this much about me?"

"I said I could not destroy your mind. That doesn't mean I could not infiltrate it, like I had many times over the years. There is strength within there, and the fact that you still exist today proves this."

Their conversation had definitely reached an apex. "There's a reason why you're telling me this. What do you want from me, nightmare?"

"Can you not guess? Deliver me from these chains, allow me to run rampant across this world to destroy the dreams of man, and I shall bestow upon you the power to become a god."

A wicked smile formed on her lips. She was aware of his subtle manipulation, but she would ensure that she was in control the whole time.

"Then I shall set you free, Nocturne."

* * *

 **A/N:** spooky, huh? if you buy in to those wacky theories that Nocturne = future Zed then this partnership seems very likely indeed.

Darkness was a really easy theme, like what other champion would I write about? I considered some kind of horror story with another female champion but Ascendancy is supposed to focus on partnerships which can happen, so the only gal wacky enough to go along with him would be Syndra (or Morg or Eve maybe, but Syndra's just fun to write).


End file.
